Away
by barefoot11
Summary: There are many more fish in the sea. Whose arms are you in tonight? AU!Neoshippy


During a lazy evening, the two of them had been spread around his bedroom: she on the floor, using the bed as a wall to support her neck, and he used the bed as a soap box to speak his mind. He laid lethargically, listing off all of his concerns very solemnly to her. How he thinks his sister may be depressed. His boss might be lying to him. His dog didn't bring his toy out to play anymore, maybe something was wrong. And the tenth anniversary of his grandmother's death was approaching; was it appropriate to grieve anymore?

All of that time she'd nodded appropriately, but hadn't been listening, for she had the most recent issue of her magazine in her hands. She was greedily soaking it up. Nothing but shoes and handbags were breaking through her conscious. Ha! What was that woman wearing? Didn't she know that crocs weren't in style anymore? Hell, had they ever been?

Only this fragment had floated like a bubble into her head:

"…that, but maybe it's just me. Do you think it's just me? I'm… I'm really worried here, Cass" – Additionally, how many times had she told him that she didn't appreciate having her name minced? 'Cass' sounded like 'Pass', and no one passed her. Anyway, was he still talking? – "…just one specific incident. Do you think it means something? I think there may be something wrong with my head. I've always found it hard to concentrate… But what if I've got some sort of disorder? In my mind?"

She'd dunno'd, very nicely. Added, "Maybe you should get that checked out" just for credit.

And now – fourth months, two days, and thirty minutes later – the bubble was bursting, and with it a way just perfect enough to absolutely traumatize this man.

(Speaking of this man, she'd already forgotten his name. He wasn't important anymore. His name was Nick. But now he was Mistake #8.)

She wasn't going to get mad. Not this time.

She might get a little bit less trusting. Maybe she wouldn't love anymore. And it's possible that no one would get to cause her heart to beat like this again, beating haphazardly with the aftereffects of affection, but to only go on without hope.

"It's not you. It's me."

"Hell yes, it's you," she shouted. Her voice rose, not in anger. No, she wasn't getting angry. She wasn't going to give him that satisfaction; nor would she falter, break or fall. No. In fact, she was going to rise. This whole experience had made her stronger, a more complete person.

She was just getting forceful. She wanted to manipulate the situation to make him feel all the guilt that he maybe, maybe not deserved. "You've got some sort of problem. In your head. Something that no one will ever, ever be able to get past. I put up with it for as long as I could, but hell, I'm glad you're taking the step out to break up with me, because I doubt I would have had the heart to do it myself! What with you having a disability, and everything."

He frowned.

Cassidy smiled.

On the inside.

Mistake #8 looked seriously disturbed. His face seemed to have a knot, compressing right in the center; all of his veins, every packet of skin, with every constriction, was pulling tighter and tighter. He was flipping a pencil around and between his fingers, like the strings of a puppet; who was he manipulating anymore? Not her.

Never her.

Honestly, he looked sick. She felt sick.

Now they were even.

Watching his mouth struggle for words was satiating. Simply nourishing. Maybe, just maybe she'd regret it later, but at the moment she had the undeniable need to add:

"So glad your grandmother isn't here to see what you've become."

_Crack._

Cassidy closed her eyes. At first she was sure that was the cracking of his knuckles, preparing to 'give her what she deserved' or 'make her keep her damn mouth shut' (to quote Mistake #2). But prying her eyes open, watching the world in a slightly more hesitant view, she saw the split remains of a pencil sinking into his carpet.

Poor carpet. She'd spilled coffee on it before. Mistake #8 had forgiven her.

She wasn't so forgiving.

"Cassidy." Oh, he's using her real name now? "I think you should leave."

Wow, he was trying so hard not to sob. Pathetic.

His grandmother really would have been ashamed.

But Cassidy was most impressed of how well her skills had gotten along; in the process of him breaking up with her, for no reason whatsoever, he was the one that ended up crumpled and crying, never wanting to see her again.

Cassidy – 8.

Mistakes #1-8 – 0.

(Unless she counted the time where Mistake #3 had retaliated by mixing blue dye in her shampoo. She still didn't know how he got in. She didn't like to think about it. She'd managed to get rid of it before her roommate could mistakenly use it, but still… Maybe Mistake #3 had managed a weak ½.)

"Okay, okay, whatever you say, Nicky." While she despised his nickname for her, he'd always begged her to call him something cute. Nicky was cute. Did he think it was so cute now? "Whatever you say…" She felt like an empress. A queen on the very tips of the castle, in her throne where her Mistakes were cleaning her shoes. Like she'd won the lottery, but by cheating.

It was such a nice way to win…

She took her leave then, strutting to the doorway, still with that magnificent grin. As she was standing on the doorstep, with the door knob in her hand, her fingers began to itch. No, slamming the door would be so melodramatic… and wouldn't he think that by doing it, she had really gotten angry? Why would she give him that sensation? So no, she'd have to skip her favorite finishing touch. She simply left the door open, as she approached and entered her car.

It was only twenty-six degrees outside! He could use some fresh air in that dingy house of his.

Cassidy was at the end of his street, complying to a yield sign, when the first pang hit her. Right in the chest, over the tender area on the left side. What a weak spot. Your heart. It was positioned right in the front of you, blatantly being shown off, perfect kill shot. Just a pen. Just a pen, or a professionally sharpened pencil, was all it took to break you in two.

See what she did there? Pencil, breaking in two…

This was the feeling she usually got after a break up. Not because she was sad. No, she wasn't sad. Of course she wasn't sad. Nick was sad. He was the one crying. This feeling was just her heart being apprehensive about the change of situation. Like, she'd have to get a new jacket. It was hanging beside Mistake #8's door, which she'd forgotten to get it as she left. And she'd have to get another set of heart earrings; she had put them on his side table a long time ago, always figuring she'd get them back eventually.

But she guessed not.

So yeah. And she'd be able to get a bit more sleep, now, on the weekends; normally she'd awaken, go for a run, come back, shower, and then head over to Mistake #8's place. Now she'd do all that. Except she'd go back to her apartment, maybe eat breakfast. Talk to her roommate in the morning, instead of blatantly ignoring them in favor of her boyfriend.

Now as she was at her complex, the streets seemed awfully confusing. All of the colors blended together. It was really late, past midnight… The creepers were out. She couldn't distinguish them from the trees; or the trees from the sidewalk, for that matter. Why couldn't she see? What was going on? Were her migraines coming back, but harder? Damn that doctor, he said the medicine would help…

Or…

Had Bastard #8 (yes, he'd been upgraded, if he'd done what she was figuring he'd done) dropped something in her water? Or put something in her car when she wasn't looking? She swore, if he touched her purse she was going –

Her shirt was wet, she noticed. Great. It was raining. She spared a moment to stare up at the sky. But it was dark and empty. What? Then –

It was raining from her eyes. Spilling onto her tank top. Blurring her contact lenses.

Well then. Touché, fate. She'll get you yet.

Finally pulling into her driveway, she let the engine die down to a slow hiss. Cassidy placed her hairline to the rim of the steering wheel, and gently massaged her temples. She would scrub the tears out of her eyes, but that would mess up her make-up, and end up making her look awful. So she would just wait, sit there for a moment, letting the salt melt into her skin and letting her eyes calm down. Her mascara would be perfect, as would her blush. And the foundation, the cover-up.

Damn her if she wasn't perfect.

Blinking, her eyelashes were a bit heavier. She could do nothing about the gems of moisture that hung like grapes on the branches of her eyelids. They would just have to stay. Lingering fragments of what had happened in the past, and what she'd keep in the past. Past. Gone. Away with.

Away…

After allowing herself a little sniffle, scrunching her nose and draining it all away, she looked up. She was fine. Cassidy just needed to get inside and fall asleep. Sleep sounded so wonderful at the moment.

She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat, and got out of her car. This time, she let herself inflate momentarily before exploding, by slamming the door as hard and as loud as she possibly could. What a horrible night. It was such a horrible night.

She'd never taken time to actually look around her surroundings before. All she was able to notice was a bloody catfight in the alleyway, a shattered beer bottle in the curb, the broken shutter that hung from the apartment above hers, and finally the overturned trash can next door.

God, she lived in a dump.

Her expensive shoes and flattering outfit looked so misplaced, as they paraded across the discolored grass, effectively carrying her with them. She was just a piece of paper, being carried with the wind. Not even she knew the direction she would be going now, or where she'd end up.

The keys jangled noisily when they were pulled from her purse. The house key was the silver one, the silver one, the – there. It fit well enough into the door. Slid easily. What a surprise. She broke the door down, with a slight push of her little hand. Like she had with all of her mistakes.

Just one little push, and they were down for the count.

See ya…

Cassidy's shoes were off first. She threw them into the corner. They were too expensive to break easily, who cared. Then her scarf, it was reduced to a curled up, beige animal on the table. When she was pulling out her phone, to charge it in the kitchen, it was then that she noticed the expanse of light down the corridor. It was the only thing lit, in her kingdom of darkness. Some joker in her castle had forgotten to close the door, which let her know that she wasn't alone. She could never be alone. Not now. Not ever.

Damn it.

Just… damn it!

Another problem to add onto her list. She couldn't even crawl into her bed in peace. She'd have to avoid the traps in her maze to get out. And the traps knew just how to get her.

She cursed aloud, dropping her purse noisily into a chair. Usually she put it in the closet, but the closet was five feet out of her way. Cassidy closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and began walking. Walking slowly, of course; she could prevent this encounter only as long as she could, and she'd take every chance she got. She even adjusted one of the photo frames, the one that had been crooked for so long the wall was faded in the resemblance of the bent shape. It was a picture of her after high school. Before…

Breathe, now. Maybe he won't even say anything…

Cassidy managed to walk into the bedroom, the one illuminated so dastardly, silently. Pause. Nothing alerted him to her presence; he didn't turn away from the computer, or swivel around in his chair.

But then the wooden flooring creaked, ruining everything. It was always that one spot! Damn it, why didn't they get that fixed?

And he gave a great big yawn, as if his world was so tiring, the jackass; and turned around in his chair. His posture was diagonal. His legs out, back curved slightly over the edge. Wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a blank T-shirt, his hair comparably messier than her mind. A document was open on the screen of his, well, their, computer, words too small for her to make out.

"Hey… 'nother late night on the town? What time is it… twelve? Hm, you're earlier than usual." He was smirking, as if anything was a joke anymore.

She wished she still had her purse, so she could throw it exaggeratedly on her bed. Scream a little bit. Pretend to be just in one of her moods, one of the moods that annoyed him so much, so he'd leave her alone. But she had nothing to throw, and her mouth had nothing to say. She just stood there, awkwardly, fuming at the small spot in the flooring.

Since he was not so used to her picking up a voluntary silence, he questioned lazily, "What did you do this time?" because her face just might have looked guilty.

There. That hit that tender spot right in her chest, hitting it pretty hard. Which was unfortunate, because she knew Butch wasn't aiming for anything. Butch never aimed. He soothed.

But he'd have to take the hit, anyway.

She hated the way he stretched and put his hands behind his head, the way his smile was loopy and carefree and his eyes were weighed in fatigue. She hated it all. Hated everything.

"Why do you think it's always me causing the trouble?" There it went. Even she could hear it – a little scratch in her voice that sounded like paper ripping in two. It caused his eyes to met with hers. She looked away. "Why can't you ever think for a second that maybe it's someone else's damn fault?"

Now, Cassidy got irritated often. Usually at small things. But Butch knew her well enough to recognize that this sting in her voice was different. While her stings usually tried to inflict pain, it seemed this time it was representing it. Bringing out her emotions unwittingly through her mouth and into the air.

"Cass, what happened?" Quietly. Just… quietly. Easy as a river was his voice, trying to calm her down before, like a volcano, she'd erupt. He didn't want to make her step on the creaky board in the flooring.

Too late for that.

What happened. Yes, what had happened? That was a question she didn't even know the answer to. So how could she answer him?

Curse him, with his eyebrows so strained in concern. Why did he care so much? It was a question she was always asking herself. Why was he always there to comfort her, when she barely gave him the time of day? (Although sometimes she would give him the wrong time of day, for fun, so he'd get yelled at by his boss for being late.) How come that he always had a nice thing to say about her eyes, about her smile, and all she did was ridicule him about his voice, and odd-colored hair? Yes, she asked herself all these questions, and many more. But she never asked him. Because she didn't want an answer.

Because as seen before, some questions just didn't have answers.

He ignored the computer screen, and stood up. Which was more amazing than you'd think, because Butch had a phobia that the computer would shut off at any moment and he'd lose everything. Every time he stood to leave, he'd press the little save icon in the corner. Heck, every moment he spared to look at the clock his hand would unconsciously drift to 'save'. But not this time. He simply got up and came to stand in front of her.

And damn those eyes of his, too. They were like portals to his mind, and back to hers. Which was weird, because when Cassidy looked at other people, she didn't even notice their eyes. She just saw blank pages, no emotion. With him though, they were blazingly obvious orbs that tried to dissect her. So damn those eyes.

Before he could repeat his impossible question, the million dollar inquiry, she snapped at him, "Why in the world are you up so late, anyway? Don't you have a bedtime of like, nine?"

"No, I don't have work tomorrow. I don't have to wake up early. And –" Stop. A sudden lack of words. Like an old telegram. And he started again. "No, this isn't about me. Where were you? You were gone for over an hour. Which is a pretty odd amount of time for you."

"What're you, my babysitter?"

"Cass – "

There, this point in the conversation was very clear to her. When his voice started out like that, higher and tenser than normal, it was an indication that he was losing his patience and an argument would start after her rebuttal, when her fuse was lit. She was too tired to start something like that. It would put her in a worse mood, if that was even possible.

So she interrupted him: "You know what, I'm going to bed."

Her bedroom was adjoined to his. Cassidy just had to make it through that doorway, right there, and slam the door, to reach her freedom. To avoid him and everything else. She managed just a few steps.

"…So how's Nick?"

Sore spot. Ouch, that was a sore spot.

Another one of his annoying qualities. He could figure her out. And then he'd find the most inappropriate way to drag out information from her. Maybe he did on purpose. Maybe not. But it always got her to release her anger onto him for asking, inadvertently confessing everything he wanted to know.

It worked flawlessly.

"To hell with that bastard! All he does is complain and worry all of the time. Oh my dog this, oh my job that! It never ends. I had to tell him to man the hell up and deal with it. But since he's such a wuss, he couldn't do that. So it's over between us. And you know who he reminds me of? You." … That was weak, Cassidy. She could do better than that… Trying to get him mad just so he wouldn't press any further? Really? She couldn't even justify the accusation, because she knew there were no grounds for it in the first place.

She chewed on the inside of her mouth, a terrible habit. Then she stalked over to her doorway, until she was touching the knob. That's when she was stopped again.

"So are you okay?"

Traitorous, Cassidy's throat tightened suddenly, making her choke. It sounded like she started to sob. And since he wouldn't see her face, that's what he'd figure. And maybe she was, because everything was blurring together again. The trash can was part of the floor, the floor part of the walls… She covered her face in her hands. She had to get all of this make-up off of her skin and get into bed. Simple, right? Wash, bed. Wash, bed. Wash –

"Damn it, what did I _do_ this time?" she cried, letting her inner thoughts play themselves for him.

Which had an unexpected effect, since Butch was suddenly beside her with a hand on her shoulder. "I don't think you did anything wrong. I agree, he's just a bastard."

Sympathy was the last thing she thought he could give. He was the type to guffaw at people when they fell down staircases. Pain was amusing to him. Then why not hers? And she wasn't so sure he even knew Nick, so what basis did he have to name him out? Despite the lack of sense, it made her feel all the better.

"Just a bastard," she echoed. Her body was racking. All over, she just quaked. Was this a physical effect to misery? The body's way of riding of all of the waste, giving space for something new?

If so, she hoped it didn't last for long. Because it made her look frail, as if she couldn't handle something so small as the break-up of a relationship, eighteen and a half months in the making. How much of her life had been wasted?

All of a sudden she had something to bury her head into. She accepted it; she was cold, it was warm. Her roommate, the one she had barely considered taking in at first, who she'd spent a long and expansive six years getting to know, had put his arms around her and let her cry into his chest. Not that Cassidy would cry. Maybe she'd let the pair of them stand there for just a while, until she could manage to walk away and until he remembered the document on his screen.

Butch put his hand on her hair, and she started muttering inconsistently, like a switch had been activated in her head by the touch of his hand.

"They're all the same. All of them. They take you on the best ride of your life, and then give you such a dissatisfying ending. Or no ending at all… Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just me, Butch," she realized. She was the common thread in all of those unsuccessful relationships, afterall…

"No, it's not you." She was surprised to hear him respond; usually he tuned her out when she began to rant. But he replied, and so very earnestly. "None of them knew what they had," he said quietly.

"Then what was it?" If he was offering advice, then he better be willing to step up. "And what do I do now?"

"You don't give up."

Cassidy was transfixed by his chest; every word that came from his mouth vibrated in his chest first. It was like a quaking of an earthquake under water. She wanted to hear him talk more. It felt nice against her temple, and her senses were overloaded; did he always smell so nice? Why hadn't she noticed that he smelled like a renewed sunrise after a rainy night? So deep and fresh… Real. He was real. He was a solid foundation she could always fall on, no matter how many times they'd attempted to break each other down in the past.

"I think I should give up," she continued, more docile. A little more relaxed. Her eyes and face were still burning, but she didn't feel quite as sick. "I mean, there are plenty of more fish in the sea, right? But who wants to go swimming when they're all piranhas?" She thought that was a rather good point.

"…More frogs in the pond," he seemed to say to himself.

Suddenly Cassidy was reminded of all the jests she'd thrown his way over the years. How many clever names had she schemed up to poke fun at Butch's raspy voice? Countless. She couldn't even begin to list them, because they always came to her on the spot. Now she felt bad about them. It seemed he'd taken them seriously, depicting even himself as a frog…

Wait…

She chuckled brokenly, pressing her forehead to him. "Yes, Butch, more frogs in the pond. Now wherever did you come up with that?"

Cassidy didn't get to see the fluster that came over his face. "Nowhere. Just another analogy."

"I don't think so. I've never heard – "

"But I'm serious. You can't give up, Cassidy. No matter how hopeless it seems now, you'll get over it. You always do." He pulled away from her, and ducked his head a bit. Without her heels, she reached his chin. One hand angled her face toward him, and the other lightly gripped her upper arm. Holding her steady, above the water. "There is someone out there for you. I'm sure of it." His eyes were absolutely brilliant; how many shades could she count? Three? Four? And then there was the issue of how much she could read into them… A book with a hidden meaning. A book in which she was one of the key characters.

"…Someone took their nice pills this morning," she whispered, sarcasm being a place she ran to when things got her nervous.

The tear tracks on her cheeks were suddenly obsolete. What was pain again? What was agony? She felt nothing like that when she stared into him. There was nothing but a warm, fuzzy feeling that aroused her heart. She was comfortable here, she was safe. No flinching away from hands, no worrying over keeping herself away from wandering eyes. She was just her. Just Cassidy.

"Oh Cass…" He put his lips to her forehead, his hands running themselves up to the side of her face. And then he kissed her again.

Or maybe she could be Cass. Yes, she could be Cass. Just for him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I've been working on a Rocket/Neoshippy AU fic for the months I've been gone. It's such a nice story. Despite all of the work, I might not even post it. But there was one part in that story that spawned this one, the 'more frogs in the pond' analogy. While spoken by Cassidy in the fic, it's very adorable.

Oh, and happy birthday to me.


End file.
